Rat a Tat Tat

Arts & Crafts; 2010

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Indie-folk may typically foreground words and voices, but that doesn't mean all lyric sheets and vocal cords are created equal. For every hauntingly poetic Sam Beam (Iron & Wine) or piercingly larynx-blessed Jonathan Meiburg (Shearwater), there are a million and one singers a little too in love with their pens and pipes. Jason Collett isn't going to blow you away with his imagery, and his voice-- while sturdy and appealing-- doesn't stand out from the alt-troubadour pack. What Collett does know, however, is craftsmanship. While so many insurgent folkies treat sonics and structure as afterthoughts, Collett suffuses his music with a level of playfulness and variety that's reflective of his membership in the acclaimed indie-rock collective Broken Social Scene.

In a seeming demonstration of What Not to Do, Collett's fourth solo album, Rat a Tat Tat, is actually bookended by two songs that showcase the worst tendencies of indie-folk. On opener "Rave on Sad Songs" Collett lays on his maverick country pretensions syrupy-thick, affecting a John Prine/Terry Allen sneer to sing some ridiculously stylized stuff about tears falling in stereo and how "happiness is for amateurs." Closer "Vanderpool Vanderpool" is even worse, as Collett appears hellbent on cramming every noun Bob Dylan's ever uttered (hustlers, madames, levees, and Jerusalem all make an appearance, among many others) into a single track. Unsurprisingly, both songs feature accordion.

In between those self-indulgent missteps, however, Collett delivers a solid album that moves with confidence between breezy pop-rock and more pensive, artier endeavors. The reverbed, reggae-tinged "Lake Superior" and cheekily shuffling "Love Is a Dirty Word" posit Collett as Mellencamp 2.0, an earnest roots-rocker with a firm hold on rhythm. Meanwhile, "Love Is a Chain" yields a playful organ-and-handclaps-driven stomp as well as some genuinely engaging lyrics about a hot-and-cold relationship ("We fight and then we fuck and then we fight all over again/ It never ends").

At the subtler end of the spectrum, Collett proves he can wring something ear-catching even out of quiet material, ornamenting "Cold Blue Halo" and "Winnipeg Winds" with delicate layers of studio effects and offering up "Bitch City" as the kind of hangdog burnout shamble that would fit perfectly midway through a BSS album. The modesty of Collett's ambitions is evident in the way he doesn't seem to mind being stuck beneath some of rock's more omnipresent influences (as the Beatlesque trifles "High Summer" and "The Slowest Dance" attest). Still, he deserves loads of credit, particularly considering his folk milieu, for almost always putting the song in front of the self.